Deadly Legacy
by ritualistically
Summary: Following Phone Guy's ominous last transmission, Mike Schmidt investigates his lead on the spare suits backstage, leading to a night of terror and discovery. Updates on Sundays.
1. Chapter 1

Despite all that daytime family-friendly atmosphere, Freddy's was pretty damned creepy in the dead of night. The dirty shadows on the walls, plastered with the manic smiles of the animatronics, never failed to set Mike's teeth on edge. With good reason. After the first run-in with Freddy and Co. on his first night on the job, the healthy terror _Phone Guy_ (the lovable, horrible, evasive bastard) neglected to fully impress upon Mike in his little communique finally sank in like a hammer blow to the cranium. Wasn't long before he'd clock in and barricade himself in his sticky office all night, feverishly checking the grainy security cameras for even the slightest flicker of movement.

But not tonight. Slouched in the squeaky chair with the lights on and the fan blasting hot summer air in his face, he'd grabbed the receiver at the third ring, ready for the requisite "Hello, hello?" and cheerleader routine that verged on overcompensation... and gotten an earful of sinister.

There was something really unnerving about subdued panic in a familiar voice. The rhythmic bashing sound overlaid over Phone Guy's hurried stuttering didn't help matters. And the music box... If this was Phone Guy's idea of a practical joke, he was a much bigger asshole than Mike had ever given him credit for.

The recording ended on a screech. Swearing loudly, Mike shoved the entire phone, wires and all, into the desk drawer and checked the cameras. Outside the silent office, the dead-eyed animatronics continued their rounds, same as always, oblivious to everything but whatever they could get in between their big mitts and squeeze. Sweating profusely, Mike took a big swig of coffee, trying and failing to calm his nerves.

* * *

By 1 AM, Mike had listened to the message three times altogether, sneaking moments in between inspecting the security feeds and slamming the doors in his visitors' faces. The discomfort had long since worn off but something still didn't sit right with him. The fear sounded a bit too real, the noises too immediate. The request to check the back room stuck with him. After all, what harm could it do to have a peek when he already knew the animatronics' nightly wandering routine like the linty inside of his pocket? As much as the thought of a mangled corpse entangled in a spare suit gave him the creeps, he owed that much to the guy.

A moment's pep talk and a long scan of the cameras later, Mike crept out the door and into the long dark hallway outside. The demonic fuzzy suits were tied up in the disused arcade area, giving him ample time to sneak across the dining area with its eerily vacant stage.

Ducking behind the burgundy curtain, he opened the door leading backstage with a creak. In his short time here as a night guard, he'd only seen this dark space through the safety of the camera lens. Smelling the dusty mildew and seeing the empty eyes of the "spare" heads on macabre display was something else entirely. Frankly, the silence made him nervous. He eyed the camera like a scared rabbit, certain that at any moment Phone Guy would jump out and scare the bejesus out of him or, worse still, he'd hear a low laugh and become the fabled "Bite of '93".

He waited for something horrible to happen, but nothing did. Shining his flashlight around revealed the raggedy spare costumes hung up in the back along the wall. Still moving slowly like a curfew-breaking teen, Mike pushed the door closed and came closer to inspect them, shining the flashlight on the floor. No blood, no guts. He suddenly felt silly. Phone Guy was taking the piss out of him and he had fallen for it, hook, line and sinker. Mike Schmidt, you dumb son of a bitch.

Scoffing, he turned around to have a peek at the door before heading back to the security office when one of the suits _groaned._ Mike nearly jumped out of his skin, dropping the flashlight, which clattered to the floor and went out. He smacked right into the door in his panicky flight out of there and fell flat on his ass and scrambled back upright and the suits hanging there in the dark still hadn't lunged at him.

Mike stared. His heart was going nuts in his ribcage but he ignored it along with the pain of slamming his shoulder into the closed door. The suits stared back in the pitch black, their gaping mouths hanging open in a mockery of his own horrified expression. He desperately wanted to run, but he was stuck to the spot like his shoes were filled with cement.

"Hey?" Mike said. He immediately felt stupid, but the feeling evaporated as soon as the Foxy suit groaned groggily in pain, writhing with a squeak of rusty springs. The movement made Mike's skin crawl and every last hair on the back of his neck stood on end. No mistaking it now: there was somebody in that suit, and he had a pretty good idea who that somebody might be.

With that realization, it was like those concrete shoes were suddenly off him. Mike broke from his stupor and sprang into action, giving the door a quick check to make sure the coast remained clear before hurrying to Foxy's side. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness backstage by then, but he could barely see into the eyeholes of the fuzzy mask. The damned thing reeked like a cross between an abattoir and the aftermath of a music festival's worth of port-a-potty visitors at this range, but Mike pressed on valiantly, knowing every moment wasted was a moment closer to their collective death sentences.

He first tried to remove the fox head by lifting it off, but something tugged back and the guy in the suit jerked away with a muffled sound of protest. Mike's stomach turned so violently, he completely failed to apologize for hurting him. Metal crossbeams and animatronics inside the face... He couldn't help but picture those same metal elements Phone Guy had so cheerfully talked about in theory inside his face, ripping him up like something out of a torture porn.

Swallowing back his nausea, he peered through the eyeholes at the scared, very human eyes now trying to focus on his face. For a brief moment, Mike was struck by how absurd this whole situation was: his first glimpse of the elusive Phone Guy, someone he'd thought about and tried to picture at length during his shifts, and it was a narrow view of his eyes and so much blinking it looked like he'd gotten something in his eye and was trying to get it out. Then, the moment passed, and Mike said quietly, "Hey, buddy. Hang tight, I'm gonna get you out of there."

Phone guy didn't respond, but, considering the circumstances, Mike wasn't about to hold the poor guy to any conversational standards. He didn't resort to the brute force method this time, instead carefully sliding his hand through the fox's long muzzle right into the suit to have a feel for the situation. It was surreal. When Phone Guy jumped at the touch of Mike's hand on his sweaty, bloody cheek, Mike had to gentle him through the process with calming words like a scared animal caught in a hunter's trap. There was a tough metal bit, tough like piano wire, hooked right under his chin. Working that out of him without killing him or getting his own hand shredded was like defusing bombs. Every inch of progress had him ridiculously proud of himself.

"I am a fucking rockstar," Mike muttered aloud. Hearing that slip out embarrassed him, but he was past caring about appearances.

At long last, he was able to take the Foxy head off. Cringing inwardly, he lifted the deathtrap, ready to come face to face with a bloody mess and years of reconstructive surgery...

Huh. Not bad, Mike. He had to give himself a pat on the back on a job well done. All blood, sweat and matted hair aside, Phone Guy looked like he might actually make it out of this mess alive. A mess of blood down his neck from the wire and a few gashes left from all the screws and haphazard metal bits, but all in all easy on the eyes, all things considered.

Phone Guy drew a shaking breath, trying hard to focus in on Mike's face. Then, he made an attempt to speak, his voice so weak Mike had to lean closer to make the words out. "Took... you... long..."

Mike shushed him and got to work getting the rest of the suit off him. Bloody as he was, the rest of the suit seemed in good condition, leaving him with no more than a mangled face and severe dehydration. Nowhere near the disaster Mike had expected, but he hadn't forgotten where they were or what time of day it was. If Mike had known earlier, he wouldn't have attempted this rescue at night. Hindsight always was a bastard.

Without the suit to force him to stand, Phone Guy all but collapsed into Mike's arms like a broken puppet. While he was lighter than he looked, Mike hadn't wrangled blackout drunk college friends in years. He struggled to carry the poor bastard to the door. He was sweating heavily, but not from the heat. If the slow way backstage had been excruciatingly tense, getting Phone Guy back to the security office in one piece was going to be mildly challenging, to say the least.

He paused at the door to listen for the sounds of servos and ominous laughter. Leaned against him, Phone Guy mumbled something, but his words got lost against Mike's collar.

"Whatever you say, Ph... big guy," Mike mumbled. He heard thudding footsteps enter the dining area, slow... and stop. He was suddenly aware of Phone Guy's ragged breathing and forced himself to breathe silently, acutely aware of the thin door separating them from the twisted metal abomination whose only ambition was to tear them to little pieces. He could run. Hell, he might even be quick enough to bolt back down the hall to the office and slam the doors, but Phone Guy... For all he spoke of the animatronics like all they craved in life was a little well-deserved respect, he felt like a broken twig. It wouldn't take much to snap him for good.

After what felt like an eternity, the animatronic cackled and ambled on. Feeling a sharp surge of adrenaline, Mike cracked the door open. Coast clear. Getting a solid grip on Phone Guy, he hefted him into his arms, wobbling a bit before regaining his balance. He hesitated just a few seconds longer, all senses sharper after his time in the dark, quiet space, and then made up his mind for good and started back toward the office at a hurried pace.

* * *

 _Author's Note: It begins! Do leave a comment if you like this so far. Questions and suggestions always welcome! :D_


	2. Chapter 2

As an underachieving kid growing up, the only accolades Mike had ever gotten were in track events. But boy could he run back then, streaking across the soccer field like the Midwest's very own Hermes. Running always gave him an uplifting, lightweight feeling, and that feeling hadn't changed at all with the years.

Mike didn't feel very uplifted right now. With a bleeding and delirious man in tow and his heart hammering like it wanted to be part of a tense chase scene soundtrack, his run was more like an ungraceful shuffle than anything else. The path to the main entrance was right there, and yet he was forced to ignore it; he had no way to override the nightly lockdown from here. The relative security of the office would have to do until daybreak.

As they approached the hallway leading back to the office with excruciating slowness (just a few large strides away, for crying out loud), a noise up ahead made Mike stop dead, quickly concealing himself and Phone Guy behind a table. Foxy was silhouetted against the wall, his pirate hook raised in greeting, directly blocking off their nearest exit. The animatronic wasn't moving. Was he looking their way? Mike couldn't tell. His eyes skipped past the grinning fox to the other corridor, where the faint light from the security office hinted at safety so close he could almost taste it. But running would give up their position instantly.

Foxy still hadn't moved or made a sound, so Mike hazarded a glance at Phone Guy. The poor guy looked like he had given up. His eyes were closed and he was breathing shallowly, as silent as the recently deceased. Nope, too macabre. As silent as... a fawn hidden in sun-dappled woods? Calming images, Mike.

Before he could figure out a course of action, a spotlight came on with a thump, trapping them in blinding light like animals timidly crossing a country road. Startled, Mike hissed out a small army of expletives, hauling Phone Guy up with him, ready to bolt, when a voice spoke up from the darkness of the stage.

"Let us finish it."

The disembodied words were terrifying enough, but the tone was the the cherry on top: too cheery for a threatening request in the dead of night, a sing-song monstrosity made up of what sounded like obsolete voice clips from a birthday party long gone, a child's voice slowed down. He could see the shapes of round bear ears over the dull reflections of the animatronic's eyes as it stood there motionless with a useless microphone in its hand. Freddy fucking Fazbear could talk.

Mike wasn't sure what to do. Foxy still hadn't moved and Freddy stood there in the dark, watching his captive audience expectantly, as if awaiting an ovation for his performance. Phone Guy was shaking like a leaf, prompting Mike to give his shoulder a reassuring pat.

"Uh... pardon?" Mike said as assertively as he could, keeping one eye on Foxy even as he addressed Freddy. How in blue blazes movie protagonists could come up with catchy one-liners on the go, he had no clue.

Freddy's dead eyes gleamed like they used to belong to a living thing. More words hissed out from between his bared teeth. "It was him."

"It was him," another voice echoed. Mike jumped at Bonnie and Chica's appearance at the far end of the dining area. He started slowly slowly moving out of the light, one little inch at a time. There was an unpleasant feeling to all this, the way the animatronics stood and watched instead of running at him with murderous intent. It felt like a trial.

"Hey, sorry pal," Mike said, laughing nervously. "I've got no idea what you're talking about, so..."

"It was him," Chica whispered. "He killed us."

Mike turned back to look at Freddy, then the others. Were they standing closer? Freddy was off the stage. They were slowly corralling the men in, tightening like a boa constrictor. He nudged Phone Guy a step closer to the open exit, making him stumble. Mike couldn't summon the energy to reply to Chica's words, all his attention being divided between the four. If he stared hard enough, he could will them to stay still, like staring down any big jungle cat. Or did that just piss them off worse? He couldn't remember.

"Give him to us," Freddy rumbled, and suddenly Mike understood. Phone Guy. They wanted Phone Guy. God, hadn't he been through enough? They wanted Mike to sign his death warrant. And if he gave Phone Guy up to them... they'd let him go. Or, at the very least, he'd get the chance to escape while they were busy. If only that didn't sound appealing...

 _He killed us._ What did that mean? Hidden in the shadow, Bonnie must've seen the shocked, confused look on his face. He let out a low laugh that shook Mike to the core.

"Give him to us," the animatronics insisted in a mess of overlapping voices. Foxy added playfully, "We don't want you."

Dammit, Mike hesitated. Four on one and a half, if Phone Guy could even stand on his own. Or he could take the easy way out, and what was that about murder? If this was an act of revenge, it was kind of reasonable not to get involved... right? Let them have whatever revenge they had in mind, escape with his skin? Dammit... Mike was no white knight. He needed the money, that's all, and he wasn't being paid enough for this shit.

The same seemed to occur to Phone Guy. His breathing was shaky, like he might cry, so Mike made a point not to look at him, but Mike couldn't ignore the way his weak grip struggled to tighten around him like a drowning man's around his last anchor.

"Look..." Mike began, far less assertively.

"Mike, please," Phone Guy said. His voice cracked from the effort.

Interrupted mid-sentence, Mike's mouth hung open. He just couldn't do it. Finding him dead was within the realm of the expected, but to find him alive, give him a sliver of hope, then deliver him back to the lions was something Mike just... wasn't.

Ahhhh... fuck it. With all eyes on him, Mike tried to bodily pick Phone Guy up, but the terrified man resisted him, trying to fight him off. All the while, the animatronics stared hollowly at the scuffle, slowly closing in with their glittering eyes and leering animal faces.

"Stop it, stop it!" Mike growled, grabbing his arms after getting batted in the face. "Stop fighting!"

"Don't do this - you can't!" Phone Guy's weak protests turned into a yelp as Mike pulled him up and unceremoniously slung him over his shoulder. Looking around at the murderous band of animatronics, Mike's only thought was, _Ohhh I'm really gonna regret this..._

Mike ran like hell. It took the animatronics a second to figure out what was happening, but when they did it was Foxy who let out a screech and came after them first, his feet thudding heavily on the tiled floor, pursuing them around the corner into the tight segment of corridor leading to light and safety.

Heart racing in icy terror, Mike reached the door and basically threw Phone Guy down. Glancing back over his shoulder, he caught sight of Foxy bearing down at him with his hook held high and flinched back. The hook embedded itself into the wall, leaving a sizeable hole when he wrenched it back out again. Dammit. They'd dock that from his pay.

The wide arc of Foxy's hook hand got Mike right across the back of the head as he ducked and lunged at the door controls. It didn't hurt at the outset, but Mike knew the wet warmth running down his neck wasn't just sweat. The next swing met with a resounding CLANG against the door that slammed shut in the pirate's face, followed by the thuds of Foxy knocking in anger.

Still feeling lightheaded from the chase, Mike stumbled over Phone Guy to the other door, shutting it. As much as conserving power was undeniably tantamount to survival, he knew where angry animatronics were, retribution couldn't be far behind. He quickly checked the cameras next, grimacing when he gingerly touched his hair. That needed stitches, no doubt. On the bright side, Foxy seemed to have given up on the brute-force tactic and the others were nowhere near the security office. He'd leave the doors closed for now, though. He needed a break.

The office was still so small and quiet, so stifled. Sinking down into the chair, Mike finally chanced a look at Fazbear's nemesis. Phone Guy had scrunched himself up into a corner, dishevelled head in his bloody hands as he continued to tremble. In the light of the office, he looked like an even worse mess. Remembering the pep in his messages gave Mike's heart a painful feeling that quickly soured with doubt. _He killed us._

Still, now was not the time for questions, much less premature accusations. With a sigh, Mike got up and came over to crouch in front of him. "Hey, we're okay," he said, adding sheepishly, "Sorry to have scared you like that. That was..." He glanced at the clock. "Still a little time left before... our shift ends, so yeah. Let me get you something to drink. Sound good? Come on."

Mike started helping him up, but he pulled away. He was crying, Mike noticed with an unpleasant start, just sitting there silently stifling his helpless sobbing, crushed by the same mix of relief and despair Mike himself was desperately attempting to ignore. He stared for far longer than he should've, and then he awkwardly patted Phone Guy's shoulder.

Phone Guy finally let go of his injured face long enough to touch Mike's arm, holding on tightly enough it was like he was afraid Mike would go back out there and get himself killed. Dammit, he looked so broken. If there ever was a person on earth who badly needed a hug in this moment, Mike had found him.

"Hey, it's okay, buddy," he said, trying to chuckle and keep things light. Phone Guy nodded his assent wordlessly, but when Mike pulled him into a quick, firm hug, he latched on in desperation and wouldn't let go, squeezing a small drop of human reassurance out of a decidedly dire situation that had two bleeding men trapped in a small box, and that wasn't over yet.

* * *

Atuhor's Nose: Early update ahoy. :D Thank you for your feedback, guys, and special thanks to TheOneAndOnlyMe and guest for your suggestions! Thanks for reading; feel free to leave me any comments/suggestions you might have.


	3. Chapter 3

It was tough work getting Phone Guy to calm down and let go of Mike so he could check the cameras. After that, getting his own hammering heart and racing, disjointed thoughts to slow was a whole other task, and a monumental one at that. By the time he had Phone Guy in a chair with some much needed water while he took a quick glance over his wounds, Mike was still moving from one task to another like a numb animatronic, just going through the motions. There was so much blood crusted on him Mike barely wanted to touch the poor guy, but he gritted his teeth and bore it, going over to the first aid kit in the corner to get some supplies.

"Keep an eye out for me?" Mike said, and Phone Guy croaked out a sound of acquiescence.

Mike cursed colorfully when he got the box open - the kit had not seen much use in the years it spent hanging out in the security office, and it was poorly stocked. Not like safety had ever been a priority at Freddy Fazbear's Pizza to begin with. But it was hard to ignore the big ugly patch of blood along Phone Guy's side, and although he had shied away when Mike tried lifting his shirt to look, it clearly needed more than a little bandaid or gauze to fix. That was still a minor issue compared to Mike's lack of medical training.

Still, baby steps. Coming back over to Phone Guy's side, he set to work. Step 1: get most of the blood cleaned up. Step 2: bandage up what he could with what he had. Step 3: wait for morning to -

He paused and cast a nervous glance at the black mouth of the nearest doorway. He hated the way it gaped. Anything could've been standing just out of sight, a single stride away, poised to strike - waiting to finish the job - and he wouldn't be able to see it from here.

"Whose bright idea was it to rig the doors to run out of power?" he grunted irritably, though he was careful to help his voice low.

Phone Guy didn't immediately answer. After his earlier outburst, he seemed sheepish and grateful, trying his best to watch the doors and cameras and avoid flinching whenever Mike touched an open cut. He helpfully turned his head to allow Mike access to the gash under his chin. What a trooper. For some reason, while listening to the nightly messages, Mike had envisioned a superficially awkward but otherwise warm-hearted guy, always the first to compliment and the last to interrupt. The exhausted silence and collapsed look to the guy he was currently tending to, on the other hand... It was worrying, goddammit.

"How're you holding up?" Mike asked. _Aside from the almost got killed twice thing, that is._

"I'm OK," Phone Guy said a little too quickly. Then, he added with slight hesitation, as if worried he might offend, "You know, you're bleeding too."

Mike snorted, ignoring the dull throbbing at the back of his head. "Just a paper cut. Foxy hits like a girl." He sat back on his haunches with a sigh, quietly admiring his handiwork. The ever intrepid Dr. Schmidt had managed to treat every minor injury on his patient, but that left the suspicious bleed under his ribs that he honestly didn't want to look at. In spite of himself, his thoughts went through a cavalcade of unsavory possibilities, each more gruesome than the last.

"Gonna need to have a look at this, buddy," he said, gesturing to the obvious injury.

Looking resigned, Phone Guy let out a breath and nodded. Mike knew what it was like, knowing you were injured - fucked - and not wanting to see just how bad the prognosis was. Staying stoic just by remaining in the dark. It was the only way to keep things together sometimes and, judging by how tense his jaw was and the way he refused to make eye contact, he was just barely there.

Phone Guy exhaled sharply and stared hard at the camera feeds while Mike peeled back his shirt, jumping with a hiss of pain when the fabric tugged at the wound. Embarrassed by his lack of fortitude, he muttered, growing increasingly worried by Mike's silence, "Sorry. Uh... They're out in the dining area. It looks like they're taking a break. Maybe talking. Shooting the breeze, y-y'know? Chatting. Talking about... Umm. Do you wanna... Do you wanna have a look? Mike?"

Mike shook his head, brow furrowed. There was a deep gash there under the mess of blood, and it had started bleeding again. He quickly packed the gauze against it, gritting his teeth when he felt Phone Guy squirm under his hand, and looked around for something to hold it into place. He could already feel the gauze soaking through.

He looked up and caught Phone Guy looking at him, tired and scared. It suddenly occurred to him just how blue his eyes were - so blue you could swim in them, blue enough to make you forgive his crimes? - and then Mike looked away and quietly kicked himself for focusing on something so pointless. For God's sake, focus, Schmidt.

"What's wrong?" Phone Guy asked nervously. "Is it bad?"

Mike shook his head again. "You're okay. It's fine. Just... Uh, a superficial type wound." He got Phone Guy to hold the gauze down, then backed up and stripped his shirt off, warily keeping an eye on the doors.

Initially puzzled by the sight, Phone Guy watched him and gave a cheeky wolf whistle and a weak chuckle, the movement of which nevertheless made him wince in pain. "Putting - putting a show on for me there, sport?"

Mike snorted in amusement, shaking his head as he tore up his shirt and made a point to rip the name tag off. Another sum to be docked from his paycheck, but he couldn't summon half a shit to give at this point. _If we survive this, I quit. I'll head for the coast, get a job at a tackle shop or something. And never set foot in this miserable hellhole again.  
_

Phone Guy awkwardly held his breath while Mike carefully tied the ripped cloth over the gauze and around his body. He was trying his damnedest to be gentle even though his hands were far from steady at this point.

"What're you thinking?" Phone Guy asked quietly, watching Mike secure the ends.

"I'm thinking..." Mike said, tugging Phone Guy's shirt back into place and straightening up, "I've never heard them talk before."

Phone Guy was silent for a moment. He tried to stand up, but his legs buckled under him, forcing him to sit back down. Mike had pulled up another chair from where it was folded in the corner, and settled in to watch the cameras. Back to normal at the pizzeria. Foxy had retreated back behind the curtain, Chica was surveying the kitchen, and the other two were nowhere to be seen. Mike flicked the lights on out in the hallways - nada.

"You're right," Phone Guy admitted. "They don't talk."

"The bastards must really have it in for you then," Mike said. He was already feeling better now that he had settled back into the routine. This was something he could handle. He chuckled bitterly. "Breaking their vow of silence... How'd you tick them off so badly?"

"I don't know."

Mike looked over to see Phone Guy staring down at his hands, all hollowed out by the ordeal. There wasn't a trace of that cheerful hesitation left, none of the pep that kept Mike going through the past week. How quickly the tables turned.

"I thought I understood them," Phone Guy said, his voice shaking.

Mike suddenly felt bad for making fun of his recordings, the way he'd personified each animatronic character and talked about them like they were only misunderstood individuals who only wanted a little respect and consideration. Poor bastard.

Mike reached out, felt for his hand, and gave him an encouraging squeeze. "You did your best. Lasting this long... You're a certified badass, pal." That elicited a small smile, which Mike couldn't help but mirror before he turned back to monitoring the silent restaurant. "You've got me to watch your back now, so no sweat." He paused. "And hey... What's your name again?"

* * *

Atuhor's Nose: Late update. 8c Thank you all for your feedback, with special thanks to Author, Reviewer and Bookworm39 for your suggestions! Thanks for reading! As always, feedback/suggestions are appreciated. Gonna need a name for Phone Guy. Any thoughts? :D


	4. Chapter 4

There was always a quiet before dawn, Mike had discovered. Around 4:30, the animatronics' regular incursions into the back corridors tapered off into disappointed silence. They secreted themselves away into the darker corners, neither hide nor hair of any of them visible on any of the cameras. He'd found himself lulled into a false sense of comfort the first few nights, only to be met by a mad rush as the sun rose and the minutes ticked closer to the end of his shift, a tidal wave of robots driving themselves against the security office over and over in a last-ditch frenzy of violence.

It was a quiet night at Freddy's right now. Nothing to betray the frantic rush from earlier that still had Mike jumping at every minor creak and flicker. No distorted laughter in the darkened corridors. No sign of life from Pirate Cove, not a single ripple on the curtain, but Foxy's eyes were back there in the grainy snow of the live feed.

The fan hummed. The lonely overhead light dimmed and brightened slightly every time the power fluctuated. The air was still. And Mike Schmidt, sitting there at his desk with a little under an hour to go before he got off work, felt a tickle along the back of his neck. The top of the stairs feeling of being watched.

Playing it by ear, Mike shut both doors and moved a hand up to the console to cycle through the cameras, but froze with his hand halfway to the buttons. A hulking _something_ stood just out of sight, a dark blur in his peripheral vision, all matted yellow fur under the suddenly wavering light. The office was sealed off, just him and Phone Guy - Collins, his name was. And yet something was in there with them.

Mike's chair loudly squeaked as he turned to face the empty eyesockets of a crumpled Golden Freddy suit. To his credit, he didn't jump, but his stomach was tied into pretzels and his mouth was dry. The suit stood slumped into itself, looking right at him.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mike saw the power counter tick down by a precious percent. He couldn't bring himself to move. He sat there transfixed, scarcely breathing. Then the suit began to wheeze, rattling in a pained breath, and to speak.

"It was..."

"Jesus," Mike breathed reflexively.

"... a happy birthday... We were having... fun... He took us..." The suit's mouth didn't move. The words sounded like they were coming from within the mass of fake fur, but the eyesockets were dead and Freddy never moved an inch. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like a broken toy. "He put us... inside the..."

Mike's heart was thudding violently against his chest. He was staring unblinkingly, afraid looking away - even for an instant - would spell his untimely dismemberment. Slowly and very carefully, he said, "Get out. Right now."

Golden Freddy didn't move, but then Mike blinked, and it was gone. He looked around the little office - they were all alone again.

Mike slumped down in his seat, allowing himself a brief moment's relief before sitting back up and opening the doors. The golden suit's words rattled around his head, however. Birthday parties and another mysterious "he"... dammit, Mike hated riddles.

But then it hit him.

 _It was him. He killed us._

 _It was a happy birthday. He took us._

A few years back and it had been all over the news. A birthday party at Freddy Fazbear's turned into every parent's nightmare when five kids were snatched from the chaos of the party. No perpetrator ever charged. No bodies ever found. The whole case left unresolved.

Five missing kids. Five animatronics. One hellish robotic construct for each of the children taken from Freddy Fazbear's Pizza that afternoon half a decade back, disappearances that had shocked the country and held it in fear and grief for all of a month before all the rumors about blood and hauntings were relegated to the tin foil hat zines no one lent credence to.

And what was worse, through this past week of managing his meager portion of power and his hair-raising brushes with near-death, Mike now knew precisely what those walking murder machines were after. He'd thought they were after blood, his blood, minimum-wage employee blood, any blood, but he knew better now.

 _Give him to us. We don't want you._

Those five animatronics were out for the blood of their murderer. Collins.

When at last he couldn't take the nauseating pang of realization any longer, and turned in his chair to nudge Collins awake with his shoe from where he lay twitching in his sleep and when he woke, bleary-eyed and clumsy, like a piece of fresh roadkill off the interstate, what Mike asked him was, "Whattaya know about those missing kids, Scott?"

And Scott lied.

* * *

The way Scott Collins told it to Mike, he hadn't seen anything.

The way Scott remembered it, a few beers too many and he'd woken up in the dark, arms and shirt covered in a thin sticky sheen of spilled punch, the light out - bulb busted - a lasting taste of blood in his mouth from where he had to have cut his lip, and positively reeking sickly sweet of stale booze. All in all, a proper embarrassment to the company and everything his rumpled uniform stood for, but breakups tended to punch you in a way alcohol could soothe.

They'd commiserated, him and the day guard, back there in the security room while the kids ran amok outside. The kids had party balloons and pizza, they had the day guard's secret stash of pick-me-ups.

"Dime a dozen, Scotty," he remembered the day guard saying, patting him on the back while he handed him a beer. "Forget women. This is the only medicine you need."

One beer couldn't hurt. He drank quickly - nearly choking on his tears - then more slowly, watching the day guard watch the ongoing chaos on the feeds. He'd told himself one beer, but after the second it was simply easier to just keep going.

An hour's liquid bliss and conversation. The last thing he remembered was him laughing as the day guard chased a few kids out of the office, and the guy settling his jacket around Scott like he was tucking him in, just sans bedtime story. It hadn't felt wrong to fall asleep.

Scott made his wavering way to the staff washroom with all the grace of a newborn foal. When he stumbled, his hand was unpleasantly sticky on the wall as he righted himself. Freddy stood in the hallway, watching him with a judgmental eye as his servos whirred softy, but Scott was too out of sorts to ask him to move back to the stage.

The lights in the bathroom were too bright at first, hurting his eyes. But when he overcame his wince and looked himself in the mirror, ready to behold a hungover disaster, he saw the blood on his face, arms, clothes, dried in streaks, caking a tuft of hair and scalp to his skin. His screams pulled Freddy in from the hallway, and the big bear's attempts to calm him left blood on one furry cheek.

He'd scrubbed everything down in a panic, bleaching it all away before he could stop to think about what he was doing.

The next morning, the day shift found the children, all five of them.

The staff huddled in silence through the procession of body bags, numbly pulled in one by one to deliver their cookie cutter statements to the cops. Later that day, they gathered at the local watering hole and drank themselves stupid while Scott sipped his one beer and itched to go home so they wouldn't see the guilt on his face when he'd inevitably slip.

He feigned surprised shock and inebriation, then genuine relief when the day guard - the only other sober man at the gathering - offered to drive him home. He didn't ask, but the day guard stayed, making sure he was comfortable, making him coffee and talking about better times in the hopes of loosening the tight coil that'd kept him in check all day. Scott broke apart and told him everything. The evidence, the cleanup. The murder-shaped blank in his memory.

The next morning, he called the day guard in a panic, trying to take it all back, but the day guard only chuckled. "You were drunk, Scotty. It's a tough time for all of us. Don't worry about it." That was that. The next time they met, when the pizzeria reopened to very little fanfare, they pretended that night never happened, and it was convincing.

He still dreamed about it frequently. The smell of bleach and blood, the mounting panic of never quite scrubbing the red away. The sinking feeling when he was pulled out of bed in the morning to talk to the cops. In his dreams, he was covered in blood and dragged a big black trash bag he knew was full of little body parts, and the cops saw through every flimsy lie he had. When he dreamed, the day guard had no sympathy for him, standing in the corner with the rest of the day shift, all dark eyes and accusations.

 _It was him. It was him._

* * *

Scott had been curled in a corner of the office, sleeping fitfully, when Mike woke him up to ask about the missing kids.

"What missing kids?" As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized where he was - when he was - and struggled up to check the battery levels, but a stab of pain held his stiff, aching body down. Hands poised on the camera controls, Mike watched him in silence. In the sickly light of the monitors, Mike's face looked so old.

"You know what I'm talking about, buddy," Mike said. "Five kids got kidnapped from this pizzeria and got killed - what was it, five years ago? Six? You were working here back then, right?"

With some effort, Scott managed to lever himself up to sit against the wall and properly look Mike in the eyes. "That's right," he said. He sounded more confident than he felt.

There was a movement at the open door, something moving much faster and more nimble than its big frame suggested. Before Scott could say anything, Mike had lunged and slammed the button with a muttered "Not so fast," shutting the door in Chica's face. Impressive.

"And you didn't see anything?" Mike asked once Chica had moved on back down the hallway. "Didn't notice anything weird the day those kids disappeared?"

Funny the way Mike could make a question sound so much like a statement. Scott carefully shook his head, looking past Mike at the grainy security feed. The little indicator said 10% of their battery power remained. "What time is it?" he asked, but Mike didn't answer. There was a solid click as he switched off the screen.

"And you're sure you don't know anything about those kids dying."

"What?" Scott couldn't help but frown this time even as his stomach dropped. Something had happened. Something had happened, and Mike was looking at him like he didn't know whose blood Scott was wearing. The look on his face was unnerving.

Looking right into Mike's eyes, all too aware of the open doorways to either side, Scott said clearly, "Only what I heard - Look, I had nothing to do with that tragedy. Cover-up or otherwise." When Mike still looked unconvinced, Scott said, "Is this really the time for...?" He gestured at the desk. "Do you want me to take over?"

"I'm good," Mike said, turning back to watch the cameras.

Scott sank down a little, lightheaded. With his hands shaking like this, he was glad Mike declined. But he could tell things weren't fine. They were sitting at 10%, and it was still dark outside in a way that he knew it wasn't even close to 6 AM. Those were the rules - you played the game, and when 6 AM came around you were free to go. He and Mike hadn't played the game. Hell, they'd broken all the rules. When it came down to it, when their power ran down to zero, Mike stood a better chance on his own, but Scott couldn't bring himself to suggest it.

"I've been talking to Freddy," Mike said suddenly. When Scott didn't say anything, he continued in a quiet voice, "It's fucking kids, man. Fucking kids. Did you know? I thought they were just faulty. Busted. Malfunctioning or something. But I just... How did I miss it? Five for five -" He paused, hesitating. "One for each of the kids, too smart for a robot, and when Freddy started talking, it just _clicked_. Those animatronics are the kids. Did you know about this?"

Sitting there, Scott didn't say anything. It should've been liberating, having someone else connect the dots, but he searched himself and only found the same dull hollowness.

"So I was talking to Freddy. Not the brown one. The golden one. Talking about those missing kids, and... See, the thing is Freddy had things to say about you too," Mike said.

"Is that right?" Scott heard himself say. "Only good things, I hope."

"Not exactly," Mike said. There was a moment's pause during which he looked away, and it looked like he might not share his findings with Scott after all. But Mike stared up at him with an unpleasantly steely look in his eyes, and quietly said the words that sent a pang of panic and relief through him.

"Did you kill those five kids?"

The whole room was swimming around. Was it blood loss or the sudden slam of the past finally catching up to him?

"I..." Scott stammered, the words sticking in his throat.

Mike got a horribly torn look on his face. Partly vindication, but mostly horror, disappointment and regret at having asked at all. Behind Mike, in the darkness of the open doorway, the air stirred and there was a sharp _tap tap tap_ of padded metal paws on linoleum.

Scott instinctively leaned back. "Mike... Mike! Foxy! Left side - your left!"

With a stifled curse, Mike lunged for the door controls. Scott caught a brief glimpse of the whites of Foxy's wild eyes before the door slammed into place. A hard blow on Foxy's part and the door shook.

Mike had pulled up the cameras and was checking frantically. Bonnie was on the move - a brief glimpse of an ear as he headed into the corridor toward the security office from the other side. Mike switched feeds. Judging by the shadow on the wall, Chica was already waiting in the blind spot. He waited as long as he dared, then shut the other door.

Scott hadn't moved. He sat there and shook. Between fight and flight, he didn't have very many options left.

Cursing a blue streak, Mike shut down the monitors and sat back with his head in his hands. They'd gotten corralled in, and Foxy's assault hadn't ended. The pirate lunged at the door again. _Bang bang bang._ Let. Us. In. The battery indicator flickered -

 _7%_

 _6%_

"Collins," Mike barked out, making Scott jump. "If I'm gonna die to these mascot bastards... I pulled you outta there, and you owe me. You fucking _owe_ me. I want the truth, dammit. Did you or did you not kill those goddamn kids?"

* * *

 _Atuhor's Nose: Thank you all for reading, and apologies for the extended wait. I didn't want to push out lesser content, so I thought I'd take it slow and make it good for you guys. :) As always, feedback is very much appreciated. Special thanks to everyone who contributed a name for Senor Telefono, it was a big help! As for Author's question about whether this is a ship story, I haven't given it any thought, so I thought I'd ask you guys! Whattayou guys think, ship or no ship? You decide!_


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